Pastimes
by NinthFeather
Summary: Sherlock looked at him like he was an absolute nutter. "And if I don't need a scarf?" he asked. "What do you mean, you don't need one?" Lestrade snapped. "You've got a neck like a bleedin' giraffe—" Lestrade knits in his free time-not that he has a lot, with Sherlock Holmes around. For a prompt on the Consulting Writers thread on Ravelry's 221B group. Gen, spoilers to Series 2


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Title:

Author: NinthFeather

Rating: T

Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, with "off-screen" Sally Donovan and Molly Hooper

Pairings: None

Genre: Fluff and canon!angst thrown in because it's Sherlock.

Summary: It wasn't really something he liked to spread around, but Lestrade knitted.

WARNINGS: Nothing that isn't in canon, except knitting (in case you have some sort of traumatic association with it, in which case, why on Earth are you even reading this?) . Spoilers to the end of Series 2.

Disclaimer: Unless drawings I did of Sherlock count, I own nothing.

A/N – Written for a prompt on Ravelry's 221B group's "Consulting Writers" thread from alicealice, requesting a piece where Lestrade knits. This fic starts pre-Series 1 and ends post-Series 2. Beta-ed and Britpicked by AO3's gowerstreet.

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"Bloody sickos," Greg Lestrade muttered, shoving the case file into his desk drawer.

At least the door of his office was closed. He bloody well needed some silence. And if he wanted to eat anything today, he was going to need those crime scene photos out of his head.

He was also going to need to calm down enough to talk to Sherlock without throttling him.

Muttering things his wife would likely slap him for saying under his breath, he opened another drawer, rummaged through it for a bit, and came up with a skein of dark blue yarn and a pair of steel knitting needles. A strip of knitting about a quarter-meter wide was hanging from them.

It wasn't really something he liked to spread around, but Lestrade knitted. Not doilies or afghans or anything complicated like that, but scarves and other simple things. Mostly scarves, like this one.

Lestrade took a sip of his tea—steeped long enough to turn ink-black—and set it back on the desk. He then picked up the needles, slid the right needle up through the loop on the left one, and lifted the yarn to start on the next stitch. Hearing the door-hinges squeak, however, he quickly dropped the unfinished object onto his lap.

Who was stupid enough to come in here when he'd specifically told—"shouted at" might be more accurate—everyone in the building that he did not want to be disturbed? It only took a few seconds for realization to set in. There was exactly one person with access to Scotland Yard who would completely ignore his orders like that.

Lestrade glanced up. Sure enough, there was Sherlock, in all of his dramatic-black-trench coat-clad glory. His hair was a little more unruly than usual—understandable, given the amount of running that catching this murderer had involved—but his thin, pale face was set in a familiar expression. He peered down at Lestrade with raised eyebrows, his unnerving blue eyes half-lidded, and lips thinned and pressed together to the point of near-invisibility. It was the same condescending expression he pulled out practically every time Lestrade presumed to draw his own conclusions on a case rather than simply handing it over to Sherlock.

Lestrade could really get to hate that expression. Actually, he already had.

"Lestrade, what on earth is that?"

"Your Christmas present," Lestrade said.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked.

"The wife said I should give you something, so I'm giving you something," Lestrade said. "I hope you like blue; it was half-price at the shop."

"Lestrade, are you…knitting?" Sherlock asked

"I am," Lestrade said. "You have a problem?"

"I was not under the impression that it was a common pastime for detective-inspectors," Sherlock said.

"It's not," Lestrade said. "I learned in primary school…Home Ec., y'know? My school made everyone take it, even the boys."

"So you also know how to embroider and make cakes?" Sherlock asked, his tone flat, but his eyes bright with amusement. The thin frown had nearly become a smile.

"For your information, I was crap at embroidery and I still burn cakes," Lestrade snapped. "But I was all right at knitting. I stopped doing it after the class ended, though."

"And yet you resumed it in your adult life?"

"I needed an anniversary present," Lestrade said with a shrug. "Payday wasn't for a while and I didn't have much cash, but the shop had yarn at half price. Turns out I remembered more than I thought. The wife loved the scarf, and it didn't cost much at all to make."

"And now you're making me a scarf?" Sherlock asked.

"I make everyone scarves," Lestrade said. "I've got a reputation to keep up, so I tell people I bought 'em at a shop. But people like the ones I make. And I like making them, anyhow. It's nice. Sort of calming."

Sherlock looked at him like he was an absolute nutter. "And if I don't need a scarf?" he asked.

"What do you mean, you don't need one?" Lestrade snapped. "You've got a neck like a bleedin' giraffe—"

"I have not!"

"You have, and it must get cold," Lestrade stated. "Now either accept that you're getting a scarf for Christmas or I'll buy you a stuffed bear instead and tell Mrs. Hudson it's from an admirer."

"Why should I care if you do that?" Sherlock asked, frowning slightly.

"She'll want to know who they are," Lestrade said slowly. "She'll keep asking 'til you tell her."

"But I haven't got an admirer…ergo she will continue to ask ad infinitum unless I provide her with a false name, which isn't really possible either because if I give her a name she'll want to meet them," Sherlock said, his voice falling into the blindingly fast half-mumble that he usually used to solve cases. "Providing her with a real name is, of course, impossible, as I know no one I would even be willing to pretend to be…ugh…romantically involved with and thus my only remaining option would be telling her that you were responsible for the gift, which could backfire violently being that Mrs. Hudson seems quite thoroughly convinced that I'm gay."

"Are you?" Lestrade asked.

"Does it even matter?" Sherlock said darkly. "Mrs. Hudson, once she has come to a conclusion, holds onto it with unparalleled ferocity. I will accept your scarf."

"Good," Lestrade said. "Because I really didn't want to put out the cash for a bear."

"Does Donovan know that you knit scarves in your free time?" Sherlock asked.

"Would you tell her, if you were me?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said. "But it's been established that your thought process is a good deal less logical than mine."

"It has not!" Lestrade said. "Look, I know you think you're God's gift to law enforcement, but the rest of us are not completely useless!"

"So you've never told Donovan?"

"Of course not. She'd never let me live it down."

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The crime scene was rather liberally strewn with remains. Honestly, Lestrade couldn't even compare it to any other he'd ever seen. This…this was singular work.

Lestrade's only consolation was that the remains weren't those of a human.

"Glad to know you appreciate my hard work," Lestrade said flatly, staring at what had been his scarf.

"I needed to restrain him somehow!" Sherlock protested.

It really was a good thing Sherlock wasn't actually on the force. Genius detective or not, he was absolutely horrible at practical things.

"You know how knitted scarves stretch?" Lestrade asked. "That makes them easy to get out of if you tie someone's hands with them!"

Sherlock didn't even bother pretending any sort of remorse or embarrassment.

"You do need to at least admit that it wasn't my fault it got shredded," the consulting detective said calmly.

"Knowing you, it bloody well might have been," Lestrade said. "Were you trying to piss him off or did he just start trying to stab you?"

"I was simply attempting to get a confession from him," Sherlock said.

"So you pissed him off," Lestrade said.

"My actions hardly called for a response like that," Sherlock said, a bit petulantly.

"He's an escaped convict!" Lestrade snapped. "What did you think he was going to do if you made him angry? Calmly ask you to stop saying hurtful things?"

"You're saying hurtful things," Sherlock said.

"Since when have you cared whether I said hurtful things?" Lestrade asked.

"I suppose I'll need to buy a scarf," Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade's question.

"You don't want me to make another?" Lestrade said.

"I think it would be best if no more of your handiwork was exposed to the danger of being around my neck," Sherlock said. "Or in my possession."

"Fair enough," Lestrade conceded.

"Also, it was itchy," Sherlock said.

"Shut up," Lestrade said. "Next year, I'm going to buy you something that can't possibly end up in the evidence locker after a case."

"There isn't enough of it left to put in an evidence locker."

"I thought I bloody well told you to shut up!"

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Sherlock leaned against the wall beside Lestrade and surveyed the crime scene before them. It was a bit of a wreck, really. With any outdoor crime scene, there was a risk of the evidence being contaminated, but the pigeon feathers scattered across the area where the body had been found were going to make solving this one especially fun.

He glanced over at Sherlock. The man wore his customary impassive expression, the collar of his coat pulled up against the London winter. But something was visible beyond the collar…a bit of fabric, in a familiar dark blue shade.

"I like the new scarf."

"What are you, Lestrade, an adolescent girl?"

"It's blue," Lestrade said, keeping his amusement out of his expression.

"Yes. The color suited me."

Lestrade managed to pretend that he wasn't pleased.

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About a year later, Sherlock had found someone mad enough to put up with him on a daily basis and Lestrade was just enjoying the fact that Sherlock now had someone other than him to condescend to.

John Watson seemed altogether happy with the arrangement as well. Lestrade wasn't sure, but he thought it was likely that something had been knocked just a bit sideways in the soldier's head during his tour of duty. That said, while John seemed generally fond of Sherlock, he also spent a lot of time arguing with the man.

Usually, they did most of their arguing at crime scenes or in their shared flat. However, this argument had apparently begun shortly before Lestrade had needed to call them in for a case, so they were continuing it in his office.

Right now, John had his arms folded across his chest, his posture as straight as always, though it had an extra tension to it at the moment. His eyebrows were drawn together over his pale eyes, while his mouth had settled into a rather definite frown.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had a rather bland expression on his face.

"You're getting angry over nothing," Sherlock insisted.

"I'm getting angry over nothing?" John growled, the rhythm of his speech subtly mimicking Sherlock's. "You torched my best jumper!"

"It was an accident," Sherlock replied. "The mixture of chemicals I prepared should not have enlarged the flame to that extent—"

"Well they bloody well did!" John snapped.

"Forget about the jumper," Sherlock said dismissively.

"I liked that jumper!" John protested.

Sherlock glanced upward like he was expecting help from Heaven. Lestrade had a feeling none would be forthcoming.

"If it bothers you that much, just ask Lestrade to make you a new one," Sherlock said at last.

"Lestrade?" John asked, at the same time as Lestrade protested, "A jumper? I can't make jumpers!"

"I was under the impression you could knit," Sherlock said to Lestrade.

"I can, but jumpers take _ages_," Lestrade explained. "And John's had cables, and increases, and decreases…"

"So, you do knit," John asked, focusing a rather intense gaze on Lestrade.

"Well, yes," Lestrade stammered.

"Excellent," John said, his words clipped. "You can teach Sherlock."

"I can what?" Lestrade asked, as Sherlock echoed his question.

"Lestrade's not the one who destroyed my jumper," John explained, a bit more calmly. "He shouldn't be the one to replace it."

"I don't have time to learn to knit!" Sherlock protested. "I have experiments…"

"You're a genius, you'll catch on fast enough," John said confidently. "Now that that's settled…"

"Nothing's settled!" Lestrade protested. "I'm not teaching him," he pointed at Sherlock, "knitting or anything else! He treats me like an idiot!"

"Because you are," Sherlock said, as if this was a well-known fact.

"Sherlock, stop baiting the Detective Inspector," John said wearily. "How about you just buy me a jumper?"

"Very well," Sherlock said reluctantly.

Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief. "So, next time you two decide to have a domestic, you can do it somewhere other than my office."

"We were not having a domestic!" John protested. "Have you been talking to Mrs. Hudson?"

"It sounded like a domestic," Lestrade pressed, ignoring John's question.

"For the last time, we are not dating!" John exclaimed.

"Never said you were," Lestrade pointed out.

John let out a rather frustrated-sounding growl, then took a deep breath. "The case. You called us here for a case. Let's hear it."

Lestrade reached into his desk drawer to get the file, meanwhile considering what sort of scarf John Watson might get for Christmas. Honestly, he was considering trying to learn those cable-things to make it, just out of gratitude. Just a few months with John Watson had made Sherlock nearly tolerable, and miracle-working on that scale certainly deserved some sort of reward.

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There was a reason Lestrade liked knitting. He wouldn't say it made him feel good, exactly, in the way that watching his favorite football team win or getting a raise did. It was more like doing some filing after a particularly nasty case—it was routine and predictable, no matter what else was going on in the world. In other words, it calmed him down.

So, right now, he desperately wanted a pair of knitting needles. Of course, even Sherlock was sufficiently socially aware to realize that knitting during a funeral was a little inappropriate, especially if you'd arguably had a hand in the deceased's….passing.

Of course, being Sherlock, he might have done it anyway, but they'd never know for sure. Expecting anyone, even a genius, to learn a new skill and then do it at their own funeral was rather unrealistic.

It was a pretty small service, not surprising, given the circumstances of Sherlock's death and the fact that the man was never that friendly to begin with. Molly was there, of course, and Mrs. Hudson, along with Sherlock's brother Mycroft, and John. Donovan had refused to come, of course.

She still didn't believe John's story about Moriarty. Lestrade finally did, though it had taken John practically screaming his lungs off at him for a half-hour or more for him to be completely convinced. Mostly because when John got mad, he got almost Sherlock-like in his brutal honesty. John had pointed out some things, and Lestrade had realized that he was absolutely right.

Basically, Lestrade had been willing to believe the story he'd been fed during the case for the same reason that Donovan still believed it—he wanted it to be true. Sherlock was so staggeringly brilliant and so arrogant at the same time. Compared to him, Lestrade felt hopelessly incompetent. So the thought that he was just faking—that he wasn't really so brilliant as he seemed, that he was just as flawed as everyone else—it was an attractive one. And Lestrade had taken the bait.

He'd wanted to see Sherlock knocked down a peg or two. But not like this.

Mycroft's face was utterly blank. So was Molly's, but her eyes were a bit red around the edges and she was chewing her lower lip to such an extent that it looked painful. Mrs. Hudson was crying buckets. Beside her, John was leaning heavily on his cane, eyes closed, hand trembling erratically at his side.

Lestrade had a vague recollection of seeing John limp the first time he met him, during the case with the cabbie—what had John called it? "A Study In Pink"?—but it had disappeared entirely by the next time Lestrade saw him, and Lestrade had assumed whatever had caused it had healed. Maybe John had gotten hurt again, but Lestrade wasn't really sure how he'd managed that. Also, the hand tremors were completely new, or, at least, Lestrade hadn't noticed them before.

He looked defeated, which was a word Lestrade had never associated with John Watson. "Tired," certainly, even "worn," but never "defeated." It was pretty obvious that he hadn't been sleeping, and he probably hadn't eaten either. Somehow, he looked terribly small, even though the two women with him were shorter than he was. He was wearing a jumper, as usual—this one was a sort of grey-tan shade and at least a size too big for him. John needed a proper jumper, Lestrade decided. A nice, handmade wool one, with lots of cables.

He couldn't make up for failing to believe Sherlock when he'd needed him most. He couldn't even put the man responsible for all of this in prison, since the piece of scum had gone and offed himself. But looking after John, at least a little bit? That much, at least, he could do.

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Holding a cardboard box in one hand, Lestrade knocked on the door of 221B with the other

When John opened the door, Lestrade carefully ignored the steady tapping of the man's shaking hand against the doorknob. He also ignored the fact that John's hair was very obviously unbrushed, his clothes looked slept in, and the bags under his eyes were ridiculously pronounced. Lestrade suspected that if it wasn't for Mrs. Hudson, John would have probably needed to be admitted to a hospital by now.

"Come in," John said quietly.

The apartment was unchanged from how it had been when Sherlock was living there, which didn't surprise Lestrade a bit. He couldn't imagine that anyone felt quite up to moving Sherlock's things out. It had only been a few weeks, anyhow.

John made his way back to the couch slowly, practically dragging himself after his cane. After the funeral, Molly had explained to him about John's limp that was in his head but still actually hurt because it was some sort of mental thing. Lestrade didn't really understand it, but the man seemed to be in pain.

And that only made Lestrade feel guiltier, because apparently the reason that John had only limped on that one case was because Sherlock had managed to get rid of it, somehow. And now, Sherlock was gone, and the limp and the trembling (that was apparently some sort of head thing, too) were back.

Lestrade joined John on the couch, and then cleared his throat. "I brought you something," he said, passing the box to John.

John pulled a Swiss Army Knife out of the pocket of his trousers and sliced through the tape holding the box shut. He opened it, and pulled out the jumper inside. Lestrade was a bit proud of it. It had cables and everything.

"I thought you said jumpers took ages," John said slowly.

"They do," Lestrade said. "I had some extra leave time that I needed to use before the end of the month."

That was a lie, of course. He probably should have saved a few days of his leave for the family vacation. Hopefully, the wife would understand.

"It looks just like the one that S—" John broke off, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued. "It looks like the one that got destroyed."

Lestrade just nodded, and squelched the irrational urge to be angry with Sherlock for making John this upset. Even if he really should have known what his…his falling would do to John, it would be pointless to hold it against him now.

"Thanks," John said.

"It wasn't any trouble," Lestrade replied. This time, he was being honest. He needed the time to think, and, yes, to mourn, that he'd had on his break, but he'd also needed something to keep his mind on besides Sherlock. The jumper had been a wonderful distraction.

"How's Molly?" John asked suddenly. "She was acting a bit…oddly, the last time I saw her."

_At the funeral_, Lestrade translated mentally, before answering. "She still is. She's sort of...jumpy."

"Do you think she's worried about something?" John asked, sitting up straight.

Lestrade knew John was thinking the same thing he had at first—Moriarty had dated, or at least pretended to date, Molly. He knew who she was and where she lived, and if he had told someone else before he died…

"Not that kind of jumpy," he clarified. "More keeping-a-secret jumpy. She has this guilty look on her face, sometimes, like she expects me to know whatever it is she's keeping to herself and thinks I'm going to chew her out over it."

John raised an eyebrow. "What sort of secrets would Molly Hooper have?"

"Probably a new boyfriend," Lestrade said dismissively. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

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He visited John a few more times after that, and even managed to get him to leave the flat once. He'd left the flat for work and therapy of course, but Lestrade didn't think that really counted—he needed to go to those.

John did at least like the jumper. He wore it about once a week, now, which made Lestrade more pleased than he really wanted to admit, even if the weight John had lost in the last few months meant it was a bit big on him.

Mrs. Hudson had been thrilled when she found out that Lestrade had made it, and had given him about a dozen skeins of yarn that she hadn't found a use for (which he appreciated greatly) and a number of jumper patterns (which he appreciated less, as they were all from the 1960s).

Then, about 6 months after Sherlock's death, he'd gotten an email from Molly. It was a photo from a traffic camera, of John in the park, wearing the jumper Lestrade had given him. There wasn't much question of how she'd gotten it—she went for drinks sometimes with the woman who reviewed the traffic camera footage.

Underneath, she'd written, "Thank you." Just that, nothing else, which was strange, because usually Molly babbled a bit more, even in writing. She hadn't even signed it.

Maybe that was why, when he read it, he heard the words not in Molly's high, nervous voice, but as two low, clipped syllables muttered under the breath of a man who was determined to convince the world that he didn't care.

That was all wishful thinking on Lestrade's part, of course. But he couldn't help hoping that Sherlock, wherever he was, appreciated that the people he cared for (even if he'd never have admitted it) were being looked after.


End file.
